A message to give; a night that shall never be day; a fight between what’s right and what’s right; a motorbike through Italy; a dream and a prayer; a broken man of broken hope, of broken dreams and mind; a wedding that isn’t there...Rainbow-coloured

Disclaimer: Any characters/situations recognisable from the Artemis Fowl books belong to Eoin Colfer and his publishers. Not me.
Author's Note: This was written to be read in a continuous go, one after the other, to be seen on one page. The reason that I posted it here on ff.net with the 8 drabbles separate chapters was so that if a reader didn't like the idea of a particular pairing/concept of a section then they could skip it but read the rest. The drabbles don't link up and are about different characters so missing one or two should be fine.

1. White (422)
Julius slipped into the room, moving his feet in such a way so the heavy boots wouldn't make a noise as they hit the ground. He stood there for a moment, then ran a hand through his hair, noting that his hairline seemed to have retreated even further - like a cowardly army turning in a rout - since last he looked in a mirror properly. He adjusted his belt, pulled it higher so it wasn't sitting below the bulge of his belly but resting atop, hopefully smoothing its protrudance somewhat.

"What are you doing here, boy?" Said the aging elf, opening one eye and fixing his gaze on Julius. His hair was a brilliant white, standing out against his sheets, and his features crinkled with age.

"I have something to tell you, sir."

"I don't want to hear it. Do you really think I care of what goes on out there, from in here? Do I have time for anything except getting on with dying?" The man gave a cynical snort of laughter, the sort of laughter you can only get from many pain-filled, indescribable years.

"It's important." Julius's belt slipped down and his stomach flopped over yet again.

"Everything's important to you, Julius. Everything is important to someone, so therefore you take it upon yourself to think it important as well."

"It's about your son." Julius was almost holding his breath, a lost hope resurfacing for a moment in time.

"He doesn't care about me, why should you? And why should I care about him at all?"

Julius's voice was soft, not argumentative. "Because he's dead. And even though dead men don't get anything from forgiveness, those forgiving don't feel so guilty."

"Is that the news? Because someone from your office already gave the nurses a call and they told me. I don't care 'bout him."

"That's all I wanted to tell you, sir. I'll leave now. I thank you for your time, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you." Julius turned his back, walking towards the door, towards the hall, towards the outside of this stuffy, dingy hospital.

"I was right about him, though. Wasn't I, heh, Julius?"

"Yes. Yes you were right, Mr Cudgeon. But I wish you hadn't been." Julius sighed, turning once again from the man in the wheel chair.

"He could have been good though." He muttered.

He walked away through the hospital corridors that were as white as the old man's hair. So pure, such good intentions, yet it always shows up the dirt.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.